Inseperable
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: Patrol for Porthos ends with a mugging over mistaken wealth and a young Italian who can't understand a word of French. **My story for the "How the characters met" challenge.**Rated T for vivid imagery and possible triggers. **Please read/review!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. **_**The Three Musketeers **_**belongs to Alexandre Dumas. **

**Note: It's occurred to me while writing this story that in the begninning at least it bears a lot of similarity to one of my other fanfictions (for a different fandom.) For those who have read some of my other pieces, I assure you that this piece is taking an entirely different angle. **

**Summary: Patrol for Porthos ends with a mugging over mistaken wealth and a young Italian who can't understand a word of French. ***How Aramis becomes a member of the Insperables.*** Rated T for descriptive imagery and possible triggers.*** Please read/review! **

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**Inseperable**

The nights in Paris were growing worse.

The drinks that the hostelries and bars served remained the same, as did the food: cheap and low quality. The men who came pouring in as soon as the clock struck the end of business hours were also the same. No one new showed up, no one old left. Yet the nights went from simple tavern brawls and bar fights to muders and worse crimes. The regular drunkards became criminals who slipped poison in fellow drinkers' mugs and harrassed the barmaids that they'd only teased before.

The king assigned the Musketeers to twenty-four hour patrol duty when the crimes began to spread from the buildings to the streets. While out of the bars the crimes were much more mild—muggings and theft—the king took much more affront to these than to the happenings of the hostelries. The inns and taverns were the business of those who ran them. The streets were the business of the king.

Porthos wasn't new to late night patrol. He'd served it more times than he could count. The simple misdemeanors that the streets witnessed were more than easy enough for him. The sight of his tunic and sword were unnerving to the drunken citizens (who never put up a fight with anyone with a proper weapon) and the Cardinal's Guards were never difficult to dispatch. It wasn't a terrible set-up. He was there less for enforcement and more for intimidation. On the whole, there were about seven little things to break up in the course of a night, and one actual crime.

For Porthos, the crime of the night happened a little after midnight.

As he patrolled through the poorer part of Paris, he heard the sound of fists and feet connecting with flesh. He poked his head into the two nearby bars and shouted an intimidating warning at the lazy inhabitants before he located the lonely alleyway that the sound was coming from.

"Cough it up, monsieur, and we'll leave."

A money mugging. The most common crime of the streets, it happened at least once a week.

"The money, monsieur!"

"Anyone with a book has money on them!" a second voice supplemented.

Of course. Even though he most certainly wasn't an intellectual, Porthos was able to connect the dots. Somebody had apparently made the mistake of reading while he took his stroll, and had gotten mugged for money that he didn't have.

Porthos drew his sword and entered the alleyway. "Enough!"

The four men started. They were sober and unarmed, with immensely stressed looks on their faces. Without drinks in their systems, the job of mugging innocent people was apparently an uncomfortable experience.

He let the light of the moon glint off his blade. It told them he was armed, and it looked good. "I believe that there's no money to be gained, monsieurs. On your way."

The men looked at him nervously, shifting on their feet and casting glances at their victim.

Porthos growled and stepped forward, snarling out "This is your only warning." They scattered, and he brandished his sword close to their faces as they passed. He didn't want a duel. He just wanted them out.

"Monsieur?" He hadn't heard a word from the victim, yet unless the men were speaking to an unconcious form, he had been awake. "Monsieur?"

Unable to see without a lantern, and unwilling to leave the victim alone to go get one, Porthos bent and reached. He came into contact with clothing, and pulled the man to his feet. "Come on. Out into the str—"

Feet stomped weakly on his boots and kicked at his shins, and he felt the figure in his arms begin to struggle.

"Monsieur, do not struggle," he snapped. But the man ignored him and fought harder, writhing and wriggling, trying to free himself. Porthos dragged his struggling load down the alley and into the street, where the candlelight from the bars was enough to see by.

The musketeer came face to face with a young—very young—man. He couldn't have been more than 19 years old. Dark hair (the same pitch black as his eyes) had at one point been pulled away from his face, most likely for the purposes of reading his book, but had fallen out and was now covered in dirt and blood from his beating. He was shaking violently and looked at Porthos with the look of a deer cornered by the bow.

"What is your name?" Porthos asked, trying to get the gruff sound out of his voice.

The young man squirmed, staring up at him in awe and horror.

"What is your name?"

Suddenly the young man burst into a flood of tears and choked out a mangled sentence. "Battuto…senza soldi…che cosa ho fatto?"

And Porthos realized in horror that he didn't understand a single word. And apparently the situation was mutual.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. **_**The Three Musketeers **_**belongs to Alexandre Dumas. **

**Thanks so much to lilgenious for reviewing the first chapter, AND for pointing out my horrible mistake of spelling Porthos' name wrong. I've fixed that, I assure you. Thanks, lilgenious! This chapter's for you!**

**Note: There's a lot of Italian in this piece. I haven't included translations because I think it adds to the story. Porthos doesn't understand it, so why should we? But...for those of you who are curious, I have used Google Translate to actually form real sentences, so you can always use that if you really want to know what's being said. **

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"_Chi sei__? __Sei con__loro?__W__-__che cosa vuoi? __Io non__ho niente__da dare,__signore! __Niente!_"

Porthos had never felt more like a criminal. Innocent though he was, the young man's voice was clearly distraught, even though Porthos still couldn't understand anything, not even enough to guess what language it might be. As he stood there in the candlelit street, he looked closer at the lad, trying to see if he could figure out his nationality by his appearance.

The young man's skin was a porcelain color, without tan or burn. The streaks of mud from being beaten in a muddy side alley only accentuated how pale he was. His hair, which Porthos had already figured out to be a midnight black, was worn long (at least he was in touch with the fashion), and he had a very thin mustache, though in the dark one had to be quite close to notice that . And he was slim—not unhealithily so, but incredibly so. Standing in the street, weeping and rattling on in a language that Porthos did not understand, he was causing Porthos a large amount of worry. The young man was effeminate enough to be mistaken for a young woman at even a relatively close distance, and he didn't want to be charged with abduction or worse.

Porthos' mind refused to work. He wanted to take the young man into the tavern and let the innkeeper deal with him. It wasn't a half-want. He wanted it more than his pride would admit. But he wanted to help the young man personally, and that want was just as strong as the previous one. He was also afraid to take the young man into the tavern. It looked bad at this point—the young man was in hysterics, was covered with filth, had obviously been attacked, and was unable to communicate in French. No…the tavern sounded to Porthos like a surefire way to get himself kicked out of the Musketeers for citizen abuse.

"_Non ho detto__niente a loro__-__che cosa volevano__?_"

"I don't understand!" Porthos snapped irately as he bit his mustache. If he wasn't taking the lad to the taverns, he only had one other choice: Athos.

But what if Athos was drunk?

* * *

"What on—?"

"You're sober." Which was a dangerous thing to say with Athos being in that state of sobriety, but Porthos was just relieved that he hadn't brought a hysteric foriegner face to face with Athos after he'd gotten drunk.

"Porthos, you have patrol! What do you think you're doing leaving early?"

"I got someone else to fill my spot!"

"_Rapito__! __Battuto__!_" Behind Porthos, the young man sank to the cobblestones and buried his face in his hands. From behind hands that were too delicate to have ever held a sword or anything other than a pen or a book he whispered "_Auito..._"

"Who've you brought?"

"I don't know. Apparently he made the mistake of reading while walking in the poorer part of town, and a couple peasants thought he was wealthy. Maybe he is, but he doesn't have any money on him. And I can't understand a word he's saying! It's some sort of cursed language—"

"Porthos..."

"—that isn't French!"

Athos shook his head. "It sounds like Italian, but I can't speak the language. We'll have to get M. de Treville."

Porthos clenched his fists until his fingers cracked. "Athos, that's a way to get kicked out. I'd have dropped the kid off at a bar and gotten myself charged with attack and abduction if I'd known you were going to get me kicked off the roll anyway. Knocking at a supervisor's personal abode in the middle of the night?"

Athos went and pulled the sobbing young man to his feet.

"We haven't much other choice, Porthos. Neither of us can speak Italian, and you've bypassed pawning him off on somebody else. We'll have to handle it. Maybe M. de Treville can speak more Italian than we can, and we can at least figure out if this lad's got a name."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. **_**The Three Musketeers **_**belongs to Alexandre Dumas. **

**Ok. So this is a lot shorter than my other chapters, but I think it's sufficient. **

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M. de Treville let them in, though he made sure to express his displeasure at their knocking upon his door and bringing a possible discharge from the Musketeers with them.

"If I lose two of my best over some...would you two care to explain exactly who this is and why you've brought him to my house in the middle of the night in such a state?" he asked as he pushed a glass of wine in front of the young man, who was still weeping inconsolably and prattling on in Italian while staring at them with large eyes.

"It was a money mugging," Porthos said quickly. "But he had no money with him. He can't understand us, and we can't understand him."

M. de Treville sighed. "I don't speak that much Italian. Not enough to communicate with him on the level needed to get him to calm down. It'll take a doctor and tonics for that. But I'll send Evere out, and while he's getting the doctor I'll see if Ican't get a few words out of him. Evere! Run and fetch a doctor. It's not an emergency, but his assistance is required. Tell him to bring a couple calming tonics with him."

The servant hurried out from his spot in the hallway, and M. de Treville sat down across from the young man.

"_Il tuo nome__?_" he asked softly, and then added in French, "Names are a good starting place."

"_Lei parla__italiano?__Lei capisce__—__si può spiegare__?—_" M. de Treville shook his head and held up a hand. "I don't speak enough Italian to understand a word of that."

"_Troppo. Il tuo nome?_" he asked again.

The young man stopped short. His lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears, and when M. de Treville repeated his question once more he only shook his head with a lost expression in his dark eyes.

"Nothing. He doesn't want to answer that question yet," M. de Treville muttered. "But we'll try something else. _Quanit anni?_"

"_Diciannove." _

M. de Treville smiled and relayed the information to the musketeers. "Nineteen. It's a good place to start." He nodded encouragingly at the young man and asked "_Perché sei qui__?_"

The young man darted a quick look at the two musketeers who stood beside Treville and then kept quiet. M. de Treville shook his head once, mimicking the young man's action, and then he changed the shake to another nod.

"_Amici,_" he said soothingly, and poured another glass of wine.

The young man took a deep breath and began to rattle off a long story in confusing Italian. M. de Treville shook his head repeatedly as he tried to follow, repeating the words he understood, which showed them both just how little Italian he knew. Finally he nodded toward the abandoned glass of wine and directed his attention to Athos and Porthos.

"I caught only a few key words, but he said something about seminary...a duel...temporary leave...and a mugging." He sighed and rubbed his face. "That's all I can gather, and"—he looked at the young Italian, who was drinking his wine in small sips past the tears that had started with the rendition of his tale—"I don't think it's a good idea to ask him to repeat it. He's not in shock, I don't think, but he's unsettled, and he's trusted us with a large amount of personal information as it is."

"What about his name?" Athos asked.

M. de Treville shifted in his chair and opened his mouth to ask the young man's name, but the door opened in the hallway. "The doctor," he said. "Perhaps he can get the lad to calm down, and we'll get a name out of him after he's less distraught."

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The doctor spoke no Italian whatsoever, and his work was quick, efficient, and absolutely silent. The young man had given up speaking, having finally understood that they didn't understand his language. Without M. de Treville's questioning, even his one-word responses ceased. The doctor looked him over and soon pronounced him unhurt save for a few bruises. The emotional side-effects of the young man's traumatic night were soon brought down with a little medicine, which the doctor assured them only relieved the pain and calmed the nerves, but wouldn't act as a sedative, though he did slip one to M. de Treville in case it would be needed.

"My suggestion is to help him as much as you can. He can't speak French, and he's had a rather unsettling evening. I see you've given him some wine. Give him a little more, try to get his name from him, but if he persists in not telling you, let it lie. Don't stress him out, don't upset him, and as soon as he's told you his name or he looks like he's not going to, put him to bed. You can move him, but I wouldn't move him far, and don't take him anywhere near where he got mugged. If he gets hysterical tomorrow, give him the sedative, and if it persists, I'll bleed him a little bit later on in the week." The doctor rattled off his precriptions and left.

M. de Treville said, "We'll try to get his name one more time. _Il tuo nome?_"

The young man hesitated for a second, and then whispered,

"_Renato d'__Her—Aramis._"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own this. **_**The Three Musketeers **_**belongs to Alexandre Dumas. **

**This chapter's sort of dull, but I guess it's about time for a filler. :) **

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"Where do we take him, is the question?" Athos said, sitting down and finishing the glass of wine that Aramis had left. "He can't speak French, so leaving him to fend for himself is an impossibility. After tonight we might as well kill him ourselves if we do that."

Porthos rubbed at his face, beginning to feel the late night patrol. "We haven't much room in our place, but..."

"Maybe at some point, Porthos, but for tonight that's as impossible as leaving him on his own. There's no room right now."

"He cannot stay in the Musketeers' barracks without being a member," M. de Treville said. "But...if you two would be willing to take him within the next few days, I could support him until the end of the week. After that my wife and children come back from visiting family, and there won't be room for him."

Porthos nodded. But Athos was still reticent. He clenched the wine glass in his hands and stared at the dregs. "Porthos...what do you intend to do with this young man? You can't just take him in without knowing what you're going to do to help him. _Why _are you helping him? Just a few hours ago the only thing keeping you from leaving him in the hands of an innkeeper was your reputation. There's nothing going against you now. Why are you going to help him, and how? How long is he going to stay? _Where _ in the place is he going to stay?"

Porthos rubbed at his face again. His brain still wasn't working. He was tired and frustrated, and Italian was still whirling around in his brain, words that he couldn't understand forming a story that was still a mystery.

"I want to know what he's doing here. I want to know why he left Italy for France when he can't speak the language." He swallowed, and gave up on the excuses. "I don't know, Athos. I don't know."

Athos nodded. "We'll take him," he told M. de Treville. "I don't know what we'll do with him, but...we'll take him and try to help him."

"Good. I'll try to get a little more out of him, though I can't guarantee anything. At the very least I'll try to have him in emotionally stable so that you don't have any hysterics on your hands." He pulled a bottle of wine from the cupboard and handed it to Athos. "Now go get some rest and reward yourselves for a job well done."

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When Porthos woke the next morning, he sat in his bed for a long time surveying the room. It was the larger of the two rooms in the place, since he had more posessions than Athos, so Aramis would have to go into this room. And while it took a few minutes to mentally sort through his belongings and admit that many weren't important, he was eventually able to decide that one of the large corners could be cleared out for a cot and a few other things. As far as he knew anything Aramis had brought was long gone after the events of last night, so they'd have to get some stuff, but maybe he could worm a few clothes from Athos for the lad to borrow.

He set to work. Being a large, strong man, it wasn't difficult. The wardrobe that he moved was the hardest piece, and it was relatively easy. The hard part was sorting through the clothes and making some room. But he did it. Extra bedding was set up to make a sort of cot, which would do until the permanence of Aramis' stay was decided.

He was still confused as to why he even cared. Perhaps it had to do with his being, as Athos put it, _emotionally driven_. All he knew was that he felt an emotional connection to Aramis. It was a strange thing to feel, as he knew absolutely nothing about the lad's personality. All he knew was that he was Italian, and that he could read. He may have been in seminary, but there was a fifty percent chance or more that M. de Treville had translated that wrong. But he got the feeling that Aramis was in need. And he wanted to help. The thought of not helping made his large heart throb. It was like...

It was like the kitten he'd had when he was a child. Back when he was about eleven, the barn cat had had kittens. They were hardy little things, and most ran off to haunt other barns as soon as they were old enough. But the neighbor boys got hold of one of the smaller ones that had stayed near the family, and Porthos had found them trying to drown it. He'd beaten them soundly for animal abuse and had taken the sopping kitten home. He'd become inexplicably attached to the kitten, and had babied it endlessly. Aramis reminded him of that kitten. He evoked the same emotional reaction.

He pushed himself up from the bed where he'd sat down while thinking. There wasn't any point in waiting any longer to go and pick Aramis up. The place was as ready as it would ever be, and the sooner Aramis had a more permanent place to stay to sooner he might be able to find out a little more about the young man. He just needed enough to be able to help him...


End file.
